


wanting

by tinyduck



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, F/M, Fluff, Implied Smut, Manga Spoilers, i have such a soft spot for oikawa, my first haikyuu love, time skip spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:29:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29181048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyduck/pseuds/tinyduck
Summary: It’s like you’re seeing him for the first time – really seeing him as he was meant to be. A riot of colour that melts into a portrait the further you step away, of Tooru smiling in profile, his smile tucked into the curve of his shoulder, eyes glittering with a secret only he knows.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Reader, Oikawa Tooru/Reader
Comments: 18
Kudos: 72





	1. if you love me baby, let me hear you say it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE HAD THIS READY AND WAITING FOR SO LONG AND I AM SO EXCITED TO FINALLY POST IT!!!!! 💖💖
> 
> This fic covers from season two past the end of the manga. It will be four parts, and I will be posting one a day, finishing on Valentine's Day. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Inspired by [this tiktok poem.](https://www.tiktok.com/@keiravanderkolk/video/6883871680461163778) **The words at the beginning of each chapter are from this poem and are not my own.** Also vaguely inspired by how emotionally wounded I am from reading The Song of Achilles years and years ago. 
> 
> Typically, camellia flowers symbolize love, affection, and admiration.
> 
> Pink camellias symbolize a longing for someone and are given to someone who is missed.

**_The very thing that distinguishes us both is that I wouldn’t hesitate to choose you in every lifetime, but you wouldn’t even choose me in this one._ **

In the fall of your third year, you learn that Achilles met his end outside the sturdy gates of Troy.

Brought down by nothing but a single, sharp-tipped arrow that pushes through flesh and sinew, cracks ribs and pierces muscle to bury itself in his heart.

This particular Thursday morning the sun warms your back, highlights the blank swath of your notebook pages as you listen to stories about how he dies in a blaze of glory, his shield held high, hair like spun gold blowing in the wind. They say he dies with a fierce cry on his lips, face forever immortalized brave, defiant, beautiful as you doodle in the margins.

You hate it.

It never really sits right with you, this idea of him willingly going to his death with dignity, with the brilliance of a collapsing sun, a supernova filled with nothing but rage and pain. A man who cannot die even though he craves it, unwillingly carrying the weight of the world on the slump of his shoulders. A man who has lost everything, who chose with an aching heart to spend an eternity with Patroclus, _philtatos_ – most beloved – at the end of all things. A man who has defeat scrawled along his body; a trail of blood that seeps from an arrow wound carved into his flesh by divine intervention.

Idly, your eyes slip to stare at a head of chestnut hair, perfectly coiffed and gleaming gold and amber in the sun. As if he can sense your eyes on him, Tooru slyly peeks over one shoulder, the curve of his smile barely visible past the edge of his collar. Hiding your own smile behind your hand, you flick your eyes back to your textbook, vacantly watching the words slip and slide across the page.

_Oh, glory, glory, to Peleus’s son, the blood of nereids in his veins._

_Glory to Achilles who dies fierce, and unafraid._

_He who bears his anguish with pride, his sadness eclipsed by righteous fury._

There is no beauty in failure, no grace in loss. There are only the ragged edges of dreams long past that slice you apart even as you desperately try to close the gaping wound. Pulling aside the veil of pretty words and gold-spun poems only to find that it’s nothing but ugliness, raw and upsetting to see.

But even in defeat Oikawa Tooru is beautiful.

The sound of the volleyball hitting the floor echoes, the gymnasium silent as everyone watches it roll, bravely traversing the polished floors before coming to a stop. It is, by no means, the first ball to fly out of bounds, but in this moment it’s everything to two teams standing on opposite sides of the court. Everyone is still, a perfect tableau before the whistle shatters the illusion, the referee’s arm falling to point at Karasuno. Defeat sits heavy on Seijoh’s side of the court, boys – not yet adults, not yet weathered from losses greater than this – collapsing to the ground, clutching the hems of their shirts and shorts, stifling their cries and pressing hands to their faces as if to soak every bitter tear into their skin. You watch Tooru, the way he takes a moment longer than everyone to collect himself, his arms still outstretched as though he’s desperately reaching for victory even as it’s torn from him.

You think of Thetis, bathing her son in the River Styx and praying for fate to be kind.

It takes a moment for you to uncurl your fingers from the banister, your body trembling as your lungs stutter under the quick pace of your breathing. Although he holds his head high, you can see the burden weighing heavy in his bones, in the stiffness of his bow as he thanks you, his teammates, everyone for supporting them. The team echoes his sentiments, a myriad of emotion on their faces, in their voices. Distantly, you register the tremor in Hajime’s shoulders, the red lining the edges of Takahiro’s eyes. But all you can focus on is _him_ , on the solemn, shuttered look on Tooru’s face as he leads his teammates off the court.

You think of Achilles, more man than god, turning from the battlefield, his heart pierced by Paris’s arrow. The golden son of a goddess brought to ruin for someone else’s favour.

You fly to the bus, tearfully wringing your hands as you pace, waiting for him to appear. You see Hajime first as you shift anxiously from foot to foot. “Is he…?

“He’s fine,” he says gruffly, swiping at his nose defiantly, daring you to comment on the tender skin around his eyes. “Just cleaning a few things up.”

You nod and wait for the words to come, feeling all too much like apologizing won’t sit well, like complimenting will rub salt into the wound. In the end you settle on, “You did your best. That’s all that matters,” but even then, they feel hollow.

To Hajime’s credit he doesn’t snap, doesn’t crumble. He nods curtly and boards the bus, leaving you to wait in the crisp October air. Tooru approaches slowly, and you see him falter when he sees you, can see the way he fights the urge to turn away. Can see him compose himself with every step, pulling inside himself, slipping the mask on as best he can.

“Aren’t you cold?” He asks this before you get a word in, tugging the edges of your jacket a little closer.

“Tooru—”

“We’re going to get food, so I won’t see you until later,” he continues as if you haven’t spoken. His hands haven’t moved, stayed curled into fists as they hover above your heart. You want to take him by the hand; want to find the words that had failed you with Hajime; want to smile and tell him quietly that things will be okay. That this isn’t all that matters. That there will be more chances. But Tooru hasn’t smiled, hasn’t managed to look you quite in the eye, always darting along the line of your lashes or the tip of your nose. “Get home safe.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead and you watch him board the bus, swallowed by a metal monster than pulls him further and further away from you.

It takes two days before Tooru winds up at your door, smiling that easy smile he always seems to have plastered on his face as of late. You’ve caught glimpses of it at school, through the crook of someone’s elbow, in the reflection of a window. You don’t really blame him for the distance he’s putting between you; he has a part to play at Seijoh, a role to fill as a fearless commander, undaunted even by defeat. There’s no time for him to lose himself in the despair that lingers heavy on his shoulders, no space to crumble in on himself and soak in the loss, and you would make it too easy for him to lose himself right now, to let the mask crack and give way to dust.

But in the privacy of your home, far away from the adoring yet prying eyes that watch him, it’s easy for him to fall into your embrace, close his eyes, and relish the feeling of your hand smoothing his hair back, the quiet melody of your voice asking him how he is.

“Better now,” he whispers, pressing his lips to your ear as he sighs. His anger has dulled, the faded aching of a still-tender bruise yellowing along the edges. Here with nobody else to bear witness to his pain, he peels away the armour he’d pulled on so readily, washes away the sting of his tears. He’s cried more times than he cares to count since he last saw you, with his friends, with Hajime, by himself in the comfort of his room as he tore the posters from his walls before painstakingly putting them back up. It’s not the end of the world and he knows this, but the wound festers and throbs, even tightly bandaged as it is.

It’s easier to push from his mind when you’re curled against him on the couch, something silly and mindless on TV as he recounts his days without you, his fingers tickling between your shoulder blades.

“You know what Iwa said? He said I won’t be satisfied until I’m old and grey. That I’ll be that annoying guy who chases volleyball forever.” He plays at annoyance, huffs at an insult that isn’t there. Anything to hide the plaintive tremble, the worry he’s been given a dream too big to realize.

“You will be.”

He pouts as he looks down at you, scrunching his nose. “Will I?”

“Of course, Tooru.” Your sincerity bleeds across your face, tender and warm. “You’re going to be the best of us.” Your honesty leaves him speechless for a moment, has him shifting you until you’re looking at him, chin propped on his chest.

At seventeen it’s easy to say these things, to face the world and declare them without flinching. Exclamation points scrawled between lines of boring prose, fireworks bursting in the sky, the words like a match flaring to life.

For a moment everything bleeds together, the memory of your face slowly lighting up, the bashful curl of your fingers around his, the feel of the volleyball hitting the edge of his arms, the sight of the gymnasium floor beneath his feet as he bows in defeat. Hajime standing in the evening light, a silhouette carved in the peaceful Miyagi streets.

_I couldn’t be prouder to have you as a partner, and you’re the absolute best setter._

The furrow of Hajime’s brow, the tip of his nose still pink as he blusters like he’s always done, pushing past sentimentality in favour of defiance.

_I’ll still give it my all to defeat you._

Tooru’s fingers curl into your shirtsleeve as he tenses, but he doesn’t look away. “I never thought I’d love anything as much as volleyball.”

You stare back at him, pursing your lips. “Was that supposed to be romantic?”

“It wasn’t?” He blinks and feigns cluelessness, smiles as you laugh, as you curl your arms around him tighter. It’s easy at seventeen to say things such as these, let them slip almost thoughtlessly. It’s easier to believe them, to hold them close, cradle them at the center of the universe; _your_ universe. The distance doesn’t matter, not when you’re the sun. He knows deep in his heart everything will always return to you, and it’s with that conviction he can say,

“You know I love you.”

A quiet declaration spoken in a tiny living room in Miyagi, shared between two people (no longer children, not yet adults) staring at each other as the television drones on in the background.

It’s still new, still surprising, and Tooru watches as you grow shy, bashfully shrinking away even as he presses forward. He gently brushes your hair aside until he sees you, truly sees you looking at him. The sparkle in your eyes, the soft catch of your breath as you search for the words to say. It’s overwhelming, this feeling inside of him, this urgency that beats like hummingbird wings beneath his skin.

“I do,” he continues, confident in the emotion he can see reflected in your eyes, every word you want to say pouring from his mouth. “I do love you. With all my heart.”

He cups your face in his hands, drawing you nearer to him, drawing you forward like a butterfly searching for nectar. A carefully extended hand, waiting with baited breath for you to flitter closer.

“Me too.” It’s quiet, the barest glimmer of the evening star as dusk begins to fall. The catch of light along gossamer wings.

It’s pretty, but he wants more; he craves more, and so he plucks it between his fingers and pulls, tugging it closer as he cups your face in his hands and strokes his thumbs along your cheek. “You too what?”

The pleasant, teasing lilt to his voice warms you, a startling contrast to the way he’s looking at you, searching, seeking. He’s patient, waiting for you to will the words into being.

“I love you too.” You have to take a breath; he’s stolen all the air from your lungs. “With all my heart.”

He smiles.

Before long winter has come and gone, and the buds that line the cherry trees have begun to blossom, delicate flowers transforming the school grounds into something otherworldly. As Tooru watches them flutter around you, your arms looped with Takahiro’s and Issei’s, he thinks for a moment that if there was ever a moment for him to believe in magic, in divinity, this would be it. It feels like fantasy as he sweeps you into his arms, his diploma clutched in one hand as you protest that his pin is digging into yours. There’s the brilliant sparkle of coming days glinting in the air, the electric buzz of dreams to be chased crackling in his veins. He ignores your clamouring in favour of spinning you around, a whirlwind of breathless laughter that whisks through the following weeks, that lingers at the doorway to the gymnasium, turning off the lights for the last time, that crosses off the days until he leaves for Argentina, a steady parade of blue lines.

It comes to a halt in the terminal, the scent of sakura long gone, replaced with the smell of the airport, of cleaner and coffee, of rubber wheels and ink-printed boarding passes tucked into his passport. His family isn’t too far off, pretending not to watch as he takes you by the hand and pulls you away, vying for as much privacy as he can at the gate.

“I’ll call you when I land.” He presses reverent kisses to every knuckle.

“It’ll be late for you.”

“I’ll call you,” he says again, lips brushing against the back of your hand with every word, his breath sweeping warm along your skin. He looks at you so intently your entire body trembles, tremors racing from your hand to his. He holds your hand a little tighter and you melt into him, standing on your toes to give him a kiss, a _proper_ kiss that stays even after you’ve broken apart, the warmth of his mouth lingering on yours.

“You know I love you, right?” he says quietly, and you swallow thickly; you’d promised him you wouldn’t cry. You can taste the words he’s going to say next, had them whispered into your mouth so many times you can trace their shape with your tongue. You can feel them, fingers poised to pluck at your heartstrings, the sweetest song you’ve ever heard. “With all my heart.”

He moves to brush away your tears but you beat him to it, clearing your throat as you try to steady the quaver in your voice and knees. “I know.”

“Tooru.”

His father points as his watch, and Tooru sighs, reluctantly pulling away from you to nod, flashing a smile at his nephew when he sees his teary face. He holds onto your hand for as long as he can, makes sure you’re still watching him before he proceeds to security, lingering at the door to the ire of the people behind him as he mouths once more,

_I’ll call you._

You hold onto that promise through the drive home, Takeru sleeping puffy-eyed at your side. Hold onto it through full day of waiting, through a sleepless, teary night, through checking your phone time and time again, making sure it’s charged, that it’s on, that the ringer still works. Tooru keeps his word although he’s tired, his words slightly fuzzy around the edges as he swipes a hand down his face and laments the dry airplane air. As he falls into bed, hair in disarray as he smiles at you through the screen, the corners of his smile fading into the shadows behind him. The crumple of his sheets beneath him, the stifled yawn he tries to hide between his words.

“You should get some rest.”

“I miss you already,” he confesses, and the words tug insistently at your heart, knocking it up against your ribs.

“I miss you too.”

His eyes are slipping closed, struggling to open as the weight of his journey, the weight of being somewhere new – of becoming someone new – starts to settle into his body, cushioning him and lulling him to sleep.

“Mm, you know what?” He slurs his words together, his mouth half-covered by the pillow he bunched beneath him with one long arm.

“What?” You wait, melting as you watch the flutter of his eyelashes as they dust his cheek. “Tooru?”

You wait a moment longer, but nothing comes; he’s fallen asleep.

You smile as you watch him and whisper quietly,

“Good night.”

And you swear you see the barest flicker of a dreamy smile cross his face before you hang up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ending credits:** [hold me down - daniel caesar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AYzxqFvIA4g)


	2. do you really love me or just wanna love me down?

**_And although I gave you my flesh and bones, I know I cannot love you into loving me._ **

A year passes with conversations held through a screen, and soon your eighteenth birthday passes, as does Tooru’s.

You know as well as Tooru does that eighteen is hardly a far cry from seventeen, that it’s only the really the idea of adulthood, a moment in time where the world lays its heavy hands upon your shoulders and declares, “It’s time to leave childhood fancies behind.”

But you’re not ready to; you’re not ready to tidy the room, to stop playing house in a small apartment in Tokyo. You’re not built for reality, you think. You’d much rather live in fantasy, live in a world where Tooru is over here or you’re over there, where you can wake up beside him every day, see his smile, feel his kiss. Where nothing else matters but the space where you exist with him, where you can no longer see and pick at the seams that keep the two of you together.

It’s silly, it’s immature, it’s childish, they tell you. You’re past the age of believing in fairy tale romance, should know now that people love with boundaries, know when to let it rush forward like the rising tide, when to pull away. You nod and smile, parroting the words they tell you until you’ve convinced them you feel the same, convince them you know better. That you’re smarter than you were a year ago.

But oh, Tooru’s like the sun and you crave him and all things about him, stretching towards him like a flower reaches for the sky, trailing him as he journeys across the cosmos. His face in profile on a phone screen, a photo of him at practice, a postcard with a hasty _thinking of you_ scrawled across the back, covered in ink and stamps. Always pieces of him, the phantom of his presence; never whole, never in person. You’re sure it’s the same for him, hold that knowledge close to comfort yourself, to remind yourself that loving the ghost of someone half a world away isn’t easy. Use it to justify the way you feel the two of you drift apart, like a swimmer bobbing through sunlit waves, only to turn and realize they’ve lost sight of the shore.

It gets harder to talk. The window that sits neatly between ‘not too early’ and ‘not too late’ is narrow enough as is, and with growing responsibilities on both ends it becomes easier to apologize and say, “not today”.

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Maybe next week.”

The loneliness that eats at you consumes other parts of your life, sleepless nights whiled away by reminding yourself that he’s busy too. That you’re both pursuing your dreams, that you’re both doing your best to build a better, brighter future for the two of you. It makes the misery softer, sweeter, makes counting down the days to Christmas pass by quicker. Makes it easier to brush past the desperate fear that the distance between you is growing too wide to cross. That the crack has spread into a chasm, the edges crumbling beneath your feet even as you strain on your tiptoes to see the other side.

Time passes, spring bursting in vibrant colour into summer, heat hazing and fading into fall. The air is starting to cool, the changing leaves desperately clinging onto barren branches, too stubborn to let go. You yawn, shuffling through the grocery store aisles, a basket dangling from one arm as you blearily eye the labels before you. Everything is a blur of colour and exclamation points, the crinkle of cellophane under your fingers matching the gentle clink of coffee cans as you place them in your basket. It takes a moment for you to realize your phone is ringing, the plaintive singer in your ears replaced by chiming. Tooru’s name makes you perk up, fingers shaking as you struggle to swipe, adrenaline making your hands shake.

“Tooru.” Your voice is breathless, giddy. Your heart thrums like you’ve run halfway across the world to reach him as you disconnect your headphones, pressing the phone to your ear and bringing him closer, closer.

“Hi. It’s been a while.”

His word float towards you like dandelion seeds on the breeze, like sun-warmed skin lying in a meadow, like the caress of his fingers ghosting along your ear.

“I missed you,” you whisper more than say, as if you’re afraid to share the words at all. It’s strange, this uncertainty that clogs your throat, that lingers in the space between your heart and throat as you try to bask in the sound of his voice. You’re so busy trying to swim in the syrupy lilt of his tone that you barely register his next few words. Bliss sends you skyward as he talks about his practices, his duties not only to his team but to himself, his promises to his friends. To his future. Floating above the skyline on cotton-candy-coloured clouds, it’s not difficult to see how he sends you plummeting back to earth, ripping the floor apart beneath you. His words, jagged edges dipped in gold that carve your heart into ribbons.

“—we should end this.”

“…what?”

“It’s not working—”

You feel like you’re fading, like you’re slipping from this world as your fingers cramp around your phone. Here, standing beneath the fluorescent lights in aisle thirteen, frozen in place as you splinter apart in a grocery store, staring blindly at the rows of smiling cartoon characters looking back at you.

“—not enough time—”

You feel claustrophobic, the weight of so many eyes on you making your skin crawl as your heart beats double time. You stumble into other patrons on your way out, barely mouthing a ‘sorry’ when they turn to stare at you, the disapproving way they look at you making shame sit heavy in your belly.

“—better for both of us—”

The doors are so close, the promise of fresh air sweeping across your cheeks. Late night passersby make their way down the sidewalk, a blessed crowd for you to hide in as you struggle to keep your tears at bay.

“Tooru, I don’t understand—"

“Miss? Miss!” A hand reaches out in front of you and makes you flinch, your phone clattering to the ground. Fumbling on the ground for the device, you look, disoriented, at the worker before you, the bright turquoise of his vest making you feel sick. “You have to pay for those.”

You stare at your hands, at the metal basket still hanging from your arm, the handles biting into the tender flesh of your elbow. “Take it. Take it I—I don’t need it.”

You push the basket into his arms and race out the door, tapping desperately at the screen. The call’s been disconnected. Biting at your nails you call him again, your free arm wrapped around yourself in an attempt to keep the nausea at bay. “Please pick up,” you beg. “Please please please please.”

The phone rings and rings and rings and clicks.

“Tooru?”

“ _You’ve reached 264-555—”_

You hang up and call again.

“Tooru, please I—”

“ _You’ve reached 2—”_

Again.

Over and over as you mindlessly make your way home, as you pace the borders of the elevator, as you fumble with your keys. Your phone chimes and for the second time that night it slips out of your hands as you curse, fumbling to keep it from hitting the ground. This time, you’re not as lucky. When you lift it there are cracks spiderwebbing from the corner,

**[Tooru]: It’s late. You should sleep**

**We can talk about this later**

**[sent]: I want to talk about this now**

You sink into your couch, head hanging between your knees as you wait, hiccupping through your tears as they fall.

 **[sent]: Please**.

You’re squeezing your phone between your hands as you pray, thumbs digging into the tiny fissures that riddle the screen as you wait for what feels like an eternity.

Your ringtone fills your apartment and you unlock it without thinking, ignoring the stinging along your thumb as a myriad of nicks slice their way through it.

“Tooru?” You hate how wobbly your voice is, how you sound stuffed up and nasally and _wretched_. “Tooru, _please_ —”

“C’mon, don’t talk like that.” He sounds wrecked, voice tight with emotion. “It’s the right choice for both of us.”

“It’s not. Not for me. I—”

“Aren’t you getting tired?”

You mindlessly babble promises, pleas, beg for him to stay even as his words linger, circling your mind. 

He sighs, low and staticky.

_Aren’t you getting tired?_

By the time it hits 3am you’re slumped on the floor, your arms wrapped around your knees as you listen to him breathe on the other end of the line, waiting for you to speak. Your eyes are swollen, tear tracks staining your cheeks, the underside of your chin still damp. Your nose is rubbed raw, tissues scattered around you. Realization had come slowly, snaking its way through your mind, trailing down, down your throat to seep cold and unforgiving into your lungs.

“Are you still there?”

On his end of the line, you can hear bicycle chimes, can hear people calling to each other from the street. Someone’s playing music in the background, something with a beat you’d normally be tapping your foot along to. It sounds vibrant and alive in San Juan compared to the quiet chill of your apartment. You still haven’t turned the lights on, haven’t bothered to take off your shoes, or your coat.

“…I am.”

He says, “Okay.”

He says, “I’m sorry.”

He says, “You deserve better than me.”

He wants to say, _I’m tired_.

_I’ve made up my mind._

_There’s nothing else worth saying._

He calls your name, and normally it would bloom in a burst of vibrant colour inside you, but now all you see are the soft shadows of your furniture, the Tokyo skyline outside your window blurring into a mosaic of broken lights as you struggle to keep your voice steady.

“Okay.”

You want to say more, _need_ to say more; want to ask for every piece of you he’d taken from you back. Instead, you end the call, ignore that he was speaking in favour of letting your arms fall limp to your sides as you stare at the ceiling. In the dark it’s fathomless, threatening to swallow you whole and so you let it, lose yourself in nothing until the pale purple of dawn streaks along the skyline.

As the sun travels across the sky you wait, wait for this hollowed out feeling in your chest to subside, wait to feel anything other than broken. It’s like a constant state of delirium, unaware of your body, barely registering when you’re hungry, ignoring the sweat gathering along your forehead, clutching your jacket closer. You only move to relieve yourself, and even then you spend most of your time in the bathroom staring at your reflection in the mirror, her face distorting as you cry and wonder why you weren’t enough.

Days blend into weeks, the steady trickle of time merciless as you begin to learn. You learn to smile when you don’t want to, to speak when all you want is to be silent. You learn to push forward out of duty rather than desire. You learn to stop hating your reflection. You learn to laugh, really laugh; learn what it’s like to stop thinking of _Tooru Tooru Tooru_ day in and day out. Learn to stop crying yourself to sleep, to stop pressing cold spoons to your eyes to bring down the swelling. You learn to stop watching his games, waiting for a glimpse of his face, learn to stop staring at your phone, waiting for a phone call that will never come. Learn to smile wryly and tell people, “We broke up. No, it’s okay. I’m fine. Yes, I promise. I’m fine.”

You learn to live without him.

More time passes, cyclical, unending, filled with the mundanities you try to find joy in. The faded colour of fall turns into the glittering white of winter, the promise of holiday cheer filling the air. Snows sits on the world like a careful dusting of powdered sugar, the evening air crisp and biting. It should be like any other evening, should be a routine trip to the grocery; another Friday night spent searching for wine, mulling over snacks. But it isn’t; it isn’t because Tooru’s in Tokyo, and you don’t know this until you round the corner, your little metal basket dangling from the crook in your elbow, cans of coffee rattling inside along with a bottle of wine.

It’s happenstance that you see him at AEON, laughing amongst his friends, his cheeks and nose still pink from frost nipping at them like an eager lover, making the golden brown of his skin glow under the fluorescent light. It’s almost unfair that it’s the same store, the same aisle where you’d stood, lost and alone as he vivisected you, pulling your heart out with his words alone.

“Oh!”

It’s not him that sees you. He doesn’t turn until his friends nod your way, Takahiro awkwardly raising a hand in a wave you weakly return. It’s easier to focus on the soft blue of his scarf, on the way his chin tucks so neatly into it. Every stern talking to you’ve given yourself falls to the wayside when you see his eyebrows jump, see the brilliant smile, bashful and a little uncertain at first, grow on his face as he walks towards you. The way he says your name makes chills race through you, and for a moment you are filled with such longing you almost have to shut your eyes. You could drown in the way the syllables slip off his tongue, in the pleasant, teasing delight that swathes his voice.

“Hi. It’s been a while.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause, both of you carefully trying to navigate the ocean between you. You take the leap, pull a smile just as rehearsed as his onto your face. “How’ve you been?”

“Good! We’re actually—” He turns to look at his friends who are dutifully pretending they’re not listening to you, and instead engrossed in a package of blueberry Oreos. “Do you have plans tonight?”

You see his eyes dart down to the bottle of wine in your basket, and for a moment you want to lie and tell him yes, you do. Yes, with someone else. You want to see him struggle, watch him overthink, watch him step in your shoes if only for a second. But Tooru’s always had a way of pulling sincerity out of you, and even though you want to deceive him, you shake your head ‘no’.

“We’re going to a party,” he says. “You remember Yahaba?”

Behind his shoulder you can see Issei’s eyebrows rise, can see the protest brewing on Hajime’s tongue.

“You should come.”

It’s innocuous enough, the tilt of his head as he surveys you, the way his chin dips down to his chest, his spine curling ever so slightly as he bends, his body carving through the air towards you. His cologne is different but still heady and dizzying; it smells warm, familiar, the missing piece sliding into place. You feel whole; like he’s been piecing you together all this time. Stitching your torn edges back together. It’s easy to look at him and nod, to see the crinkle of his eyes and the smile that reveals the barest flicker of his teeth. It’s like you’re transported back, back into your living room, lying on the couch with a boy who carved his name into every part of your heart so it would beat a tattoo along the inside of your veins.

The awkward, stilted greetings his friends give you, the rush to the apartment, the exclamation that ‘it’s so cold here!’ as Tooru’s arm presses against yours, it carries you along until you’re standing in a living room surrounded by people you haven’t seen in years, making conversation and smiling politely. The wine is doing wonders, loosening the tense set of your body, warming your fingers and toes, softening the edges of the room a little. Glancing over your glass you see Tooru looking at you, his fingers curled loosely around a glass of wine of his own, something red and foreign that had people waggling their eyebrows as they poked and teased at him.

_You’re so cultured now._

_Look at you; you’re an international superstar._

His gaze breaks when he laughs, loud and pleasant, the sound of it curling like a purring cat along your shoulders. It isn’t long before it flickers back to yours, holding you still, cracking your sternum and pushing through your spine to pin you in place. He looks like he’s about to call you over when Kindaichi speaks, his cheeks flushed from the beers he’s been steadily knocking back.

“Do you ever wish you’d stayed in Japan?”

Tooru looks at his former _kouhai_ , the easy, self-assured smile he’s had before every game - before every serve - in place. “Not even a little.”

“No regrets, huh?”

“Nope. Not one.”

You take a sip of your wine.

_Not one._

Another.

_Not one._

Another—

Your glass is empty.

What little joy you’ve managed to scurry away is slipping through your fingers. _Oh_. How _foolish_. How completely naïve of you to think even for a moment—Why would he—

Tooru looks back at you, unphased, arching an eyebrow in question, nodding his head to the space beside him.

His gestures feel hollow. _You_ feel hollow. You’re reminded brutally, painfully of the months you spent trying to mend your broken heart, trying desperately to return to the person you were before him.

The painful realization that you’re two entirely different people looking at each other from across the room is crushing in its intensity. It’s harder to hold his gaze, to laugh when conversation prompts you, to keep the smile pinned in place. You watch as he commands attention, as he always does, as he is showered in praise and awe, standing tall – taller than you’ve ever known him to be – in the center of the room. His brilliance burns, hurts your eyes, has you pressing your fingers to your temples as you feel the telltale rise of anguish crawling hand over hand up along your ribs.

“You okay?”

Through your lashes you can see Hajime’s worried eyes, the furrow of his brow as he carefully, cautiously lays a hand on your shoulder.

“Ah. Yeah. I just need a minute.”

Your face feels like it’s on fire, an uncomfortable prickle scraping its way up the base of your neck to nestle inside your skull as you mumble something, you’re not quite sure what, and excuse yourself. You don’t see the way his eyes follow you as you push past people, slipping between them as quickly as you can while trying to keep your tears at bay.

In the bathroom hidden behind the walls, you crumble.

It hurts; it _hurts_ , the unending pressure in your chest, the feeling of drowning beneath the weight of Tooru’s laughter, his stare. It _hurts_ , the sting of your hands threaded in your hair, tugging and tugging as if you’re trying to pull yourself apart. Your throat feels raw, shredded with each wail you force into a quiet shuddering sigh. Like jagged crystal in your lungs, like the brambles of overgrown roses, their blossoms long dead and leaving nothing but desiccated promises of beauty long since past.

The tile blurs as you cave in on yourself, ribs piercing lungs piercing heart as your knees fold beneath you. Your hand fumbles for something, a desperate effort to slow your descent, to save the fragile pieces of your body not yet broken. The porcelain sink is cool beneath your fingertips as you grab the edge and grip it, cling to it like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the party. In a way it is, a reminder that you’re not at home, that you can’t do this here you can’t just…

A burst of laughter floats through the door.

You can’t break down here.

Your hands fall limp between your knees, face tilted up in supplication, begging any god above to keep your tears at bay. You feel them leak out the corners of your eyes, betrayal hot and shameful streaking along the curve of your cheeks.

Why did you come? Why was it so easy to run after him in that moment, to hope that you could drape this memory over the other, cover the battered bruising of your heart with a pleasant evening? Like dusting off a dollhouse, righting toppled furniture, redressing the dolls. Husband. Wife. Hiding beneath plastic smiles, beneath _yes, dear_ and _of course, darling_ as they stand side by side, stiff and unmoving, as they sit at a dinner table filled with food and stilted conversation.

You hear the rise and fall of voices walking past the door, so you stand. You wipe at your tears; you press cool water to your cheeks and clear your throat. You fix your hair, your clothing, practice smiling a few times until it stops looking forced. You look yourself firmly in the eye even though you want to flinch and turn away, and you tell yourself, as painful as it may be, “Just hold on. Just hold on a little bit longer.”

The evening passes with you dodging Hajime’s concerned glances, ignoring Tooru trying to catch your eye, and drinking more than you should. Your bottle is empty, as are the ones others have brought by the time everyone calls it a night, fumbling fingers doing up coats and tying scarves as promises to do this again and to keep in touch echo through the apartment.

You pluck at the collar of your coat, your breath puffing out in clouds in the cold night air as you try to guess which way it is to get home.

“You left so fast I thought I was going to miss you.”

Tooru’s scarf is a little crooked, his hands tucked into his pockets. He looks ethereal standing under the light as he asks, “Are you heading to the station?”

All traces of boyhood in him have been shed; the softness of youth moulded into something firmer. It’s ike you’re seeing him for the first time – really seeing him as he was meant to be. A riot of colour that melts into a portrait the further you step away, one of Tooru smiling in profile, his smile tucked into the curve of his shoulder, eyes glittering with a secret only he knows.

“I don’t live too far from here, so—”

“I can walk you home.”

It’s the last thing you want, but he’s looking at you so earnestly you don’t have it in you to say no. The cold and the late hour have left the street devoid of people, making the silence that much louder as the two of you walk side by side, your footsteps echoing ever so slightly offbeat, ringing loud and dissonant through the air. He stops at your building, staring up at it like he’s never seen it before.

He hasn’t, you realize with a pang in your chest. You’d moved after he’d gone to Argentina, and before he could come back, you’d…

Well.

“It’s a nice building.” Tooru looks at you, and maybe it’s the wine, but there’s a tenderness in his eye that nudges insistently at you, that sweeps aside the broken glass, that slips inside and clips away at the thorny stems. “I meant to say this earlier, but you…you look good.”

He reaches out a hand, borne aloft by hope, an answer to every prayer you’d whispered four years ago sitting cold and alone on the floor. It grazes your cheek, traces softly along your jaw to cup your cheek and you sigh, sinking into it even as you watch him, nervously.

And so you wait, breathless and poised and _wanting_ , taut like an arrow strung to a bow, quivering and ready to fly. But it never comes; he slips his hand from your face, the trace of his nails along your skin trailing fire in their wake.

“Have a good night.”

It isn’t until you sink against your closed door that you let your fingers ghost your lips, tugging at the memory of him kissing you at seventeen. Your stomach twists when you realize it’s faded with time, lost its brilliant colour. Before it’d been filled with the way he held you, the clasp of his hands at your waist, the softness of his hair between your fingers. Now it’s just the brightness of a sunny day, the quiet drone of the television in the background. The hushed interior of his car. The call for boarding passengers, the rumble of a plane taking off. A painting in watercolour, the impression of a moment bleeding across the page.

A hand leaving yours.

His smile. Soft. Sad.

You lay awake until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ending credits:** [drew barrymore - SZA](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dp45V_M4Akw)
> 
> tumblr [@chicoree](https://chicoree.tumblr.com)


	3. i keep on trying to let you go

**_So, there you are overflowing with my love and here I am pleading for a droplet of yours or whatever I could salvage._ **

**[Tooru]: I leave tomorrow**

**Can I see you?**

You’ve been holding your phone in your hands for the better part of an hour now, seated at the end of your neatly made bed. It’s been on your mind since mid-afternoon, drawing your eyes, distracting you. You’ve been waiting for another message, claiming the wrong recipient, claiming inebriation, claiming anything that would mask the idea that he was thinking at 2pm on a Wednesday about how much he wanted to see you.

It never comes.

Every letter, every word weighs heavy in your hands, pressing into your palms as you watch the screen fade to black again and again, watch it light up, bright in the fading winter light streaming through your windows. It’s worse when you realize he’s either kept your number all this time, all these years, or asked someone for it. But who would’ve…? Your friendships have faded, the uncomfortable silences between you and the rest of Tooru’s friends stretching longer and longer until they stopped calling, years of conversation and inside jokes reduced to nothing more than **happy birthday** and **merry christmas** from Hajime.

The longer you stare at the screen the more words escape you, the cursor blinking in tandem with your heart. Before long it’s all you can see every time you shut your eyes, the steady pulse of a line on your screen behind your eyelids, each passing second counted away as it fades in and out of view.

You convince yourself you hardly know what you’re doing when you forgo texting to call him, clutching at the edge of your mattress, waiting with bated breath, half-hoping he doesn’t pick up.

“I thought you were ignoring me.”

It knocks the air out of your lungs, sends you reeling as you scrounge up the nerve to say, “Hi.”

“Come get a drink with me?” he asks, and you can feel it, the thread of apprehension, of hope running through the center of his voice, tying its fraying ends around your pinky.

You have to shut your eyes thankful he isn’t here to see you. “Yeah. Of course.”

 _Of course_. As if you hadn’t thought, for a moment, you might have the courage to say _no_.

You meet at a bar down the street from yours; it’s tiny. Cozy. _Intimate_.

It lacks the crowds of people desperate for a drink after a grueling day at work. It lacks the upbeat music, the bartenders doing flashy tricks, lacks everything that would make it modern, trendy.

It’s perfect for the two of you, this tiny space still frozen in time, that only has a handful of customers all sitting along the bar, aged and on familiar terms with the owner standing behind well-polished, well-worn oak. If anything the two of you are interlopers here, but what little interest you’ve sparked dissipates as you fade into the woodwork, tucked into the corner as you try not to think about his knee pressed up against yours.

Tooru looks comically large in the rickety chair he’s seated in, the broad set of his shoulders nearly as wide as the table. “We didn’t get to talk that much at Yahaba’s.”

You take a sip of your drink, the bitter, fruity taste of sake slipping down your throat as you fumble for words. “You seem pretty happy with how things have gone.”

It’s a loaded comment and the both of you know it. Even years later you can see the flinch he hides beneath a wry, easy smile, the way his eyes can’t really meet yours without looking like they’re looking through you.

“So do you.”

You drain your cup, and he nurses his.

“We can leave after this.”

You can’t look at him, can only watch his hand – calloused and immaculately kept as always – pour more sake into your cup, careful to hover a scant few millimetres above your own. You almost want him to touch you, want to feel the burn along your skin – anything to ease the aching cracking your chest open.

“No, I—” You tip your cup, watching the liquid slip from side to side, never quite far enough to spill over. You take a deep breath. “I wanted to see you.”

The way he softens when you peek back up at him has you drawing back, your lungs tight, something glowing gentle and warm between your splintered bones.

The two of you indulge in reminiscing, laughing over memories, arguing over details, anything to delicately avoid speaking about the here and now, about the there and later, about the flight he’s going to board tomorrow. About the boarding pass that’s probably sitting tucked inside his passport, both of them carefully zipped into the hidden compartment of his bag, as always.

Maybe it’s masochistic to indulge this moment, to pretend like this is what could have been if only you’d… If only you’d what? Tried harder? Held on tighter? Fought for him more? Convinced him to stay? The truth rubs raw against you, sandpaper across broken skin.

As the minutes slip past and you watch him glow, golden and pretty with the bar lighting, you wish you had more time. Wish you’d slipped under his arm that night, pressed yourself to his side and pretended for a few moments more that things were how you wanted them to be. Pretended that there was still space for you in his life.

The bottles have long since been drained dry, the sun far below the horizon. It’s getting late, but neither of you want to break the spell, want to leave this moment, this space between the inhale and the exhale. Weightless, suspended in the air with nothing but his eyes and the sound of his voice.

It leaves you before you can catch it, dandelion seeds on the breeze, the whistle of an arrow soaring towards its mark.

( _A plane taking off, the shrill clatter of your phone on the floor.)_

_(Your breathing, too loud, too much in the quiet of your apartment.)_

“Come over.”

He looks at you with so much uncertainty, so much hesitation that it makes you shiver with how openly he wears his vulnerability on his face.

“Are you sure?”

“Tooru.” His name sits heavy on your tongue, tumbles through the air to rest between you. “I’m asking you. Come over.”

You lick your lips, watching him watch you like a hunter watches its prey.

The sting of the cold winter air does little to stifle the flame stoked by the feel of his hand in yours as he leads you home. Unlocks your door. Sheds your coat, your clothes, stripping away everything you’ve pulled on with each brush of his hands along your body, slow, reverent, like he has all the time in the world.

“I missed you,” you breathe against his lips, desperate, trying to pull him closer to you. Your fingers dig into the firm muscle of his shoulders, press harder, greedier, as if you’re trying to mould your bodies together. “God, I _missed_ you.”

Your mouth works against his, sloppy, eager, needy as you whine, the wavering edge catching in your throat when he ducks his head and kisses hot and demanding along the curve of your jaw, your neck. Your fingers tangle in hair like they’ve always done, twining fine silk between your fingers as your head tips forward, a soft plea, a gasp, a whimper tumbling from your mouth as his hands drag you towards your couch.

Seated in his lap you kiss him until your lips are swollen, breathing him in as much as you can, running your hands along every inch of his body, trying to stifle the awful weight that’s burning in your chest, consuming you from the inside out. You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing them tighter, trying to lose yourself in him until he speaks, mouth brushing against yours.

“Are you crying?”

You open your eyes, breathing shakily as you watch a tear slip down alongside the narrow bridge of his nose. He’s gently pushing you away and something in you seizes, something that feels too awful to entertain, that feels like him leaving, that feels like a space too big to cross, that feels like drowning and watching him pull further away, his face distorted and blurred past the surface. You bounce your voice a little higher, push the emotion choking you out as breathless little giggles, pin that smile back in place.

“I’m just happy to see you.”

It’s only half a lie.

Tooru’s trepidation bleeds into the reluctant squeeze of his hands on your hips, quietly looking up at you, searching your eyes for something you’re not willing to give him. There’s still the flight, still the distance, the loud silence, and you think, for a moment, that you’ll take the scraps he’s willing to give. You’ll use them to try and patch yourself whole again, take back the bits and pieces he’s still holding onto.

You curl your fingers in his hair and tug him closer, kissing him until he melts, until he fits against you , like all the frayed and folded edges of a worn puzzle piece finally finding its mate. Yearning for him seeps into your veins, into your capillaries, up and out your lungs, slipping out your eyes. You hold onto him a little tighter, clinging to the broad expanse of his back, branding him with your nails as he bites at your neck. It feels less like making love, more like a contest to see who will consume the other first, who can devour more. Fingertip shaped bruises dotting your thighs, the tug of your hands in his hair, the scrape of his teeth along your chest, the wavering cry of his name in his ear.

You’re lying face down on the couch as he dresses, exhausted, boneless, feeling drained. Tooru crouches beside you, brushes the back of his hand along your cheek.

“I have to go.” He doesn’t speak above a whisper. “My flight leaves early.”

You want to catch his hand in yours, want to press your lips to every knuckle.

You sit up and he pulls away. “I know.”

He lingers in your doorway, watches you, slowly slips his hands in his pockets. You can’t find it in yourself to speak first, can’t find it in you to say,

_Have a good flight._

_Get home safe._

Home, halfway across the world.

“Have a good night.” He presses a kiss to your forehead and you breathe him in just a moment more, your eyes slipping closed, arms aching to slide around him and pull him close.

The door clicks shut.

“Oh!”

This AEON must be cursed, must be haunted by the ghosts of your past, nightmares lurking around every corner. Or maybe you’re the ghost; you must be, considering the expression on Hajime’s face. Surprise morphs into discomfort, but he struggles valiantly and smiles politely. Always so straightforward, so honest and open. The perfect foil to Oikawa, the moon chasing the sun across the sky high above everybody else.

He rubs a hand along the back of his head. “How’s it going?”

“Good. You?”

“Good.”

The conversation stutters to halt, both of you awkwardly grasping at straws.

“Have you heard from Tooru?”

“Yes.” Hajime can see the question blooming in your eyes, and silently, he begs you not to ask. You almost don’t want to; you know the answer already anyway, having stared at your phone for the better part of three weeks. But just on the off-chance, just in case there’s the slightest possibility…

“Has he mentioned me at all?” The breath Hajime has to take before he can look you in the eye tells you all you need to know. He’s too kind to hurt you, too honest to lie. The dilemma has him opening and closing his mouth, struggling to find the words. It’s easier in the moment to pity him than it is yourself, so you cut him off as he makes to speak. “It’s okay. I kind of figured.”

It’s anything but okay, and you know he can see it on your face, in the way you tug mindlessly at the cuffs of your jacket, pulling them over your fists.

“If you ever need anything—”

“I’ll reach out,” you say, smiling faintly even as you bury deeper inside yourself, pulling layer after layer over the scars riddled along your heart. “It was nice seeing you, Haji—”

“I mean it,” he insists, lifting his hand, but it loses its way, hovers in the space between you.

“Thank you,” you say carefully, pretending for his sake that you’ll consider his offer. “Anyway, you’re probably busy and I should probably go, but um…it really was nice seeing you.”

You give him a few nervous bobs of your head before turning on your heel and darting away, that stupid wire basket forever digging into your arm. You abandon it at the door, desperate to go home, desperate to hide the tears filling your eyes over something so silly, something you already _knew_.

A hand catches your shoulder at the end of the street. “Wait a sec, okay? I wanted to—Are you…?”

 _Yes, Hajime_ , you want to say. _Yes, I am crying._

He doesn’t finish his sentence, just digs through his pockets until he finds a pack of tissue, offering you one. He won’t stop watching you as you try to clean yourself up, swinging his bag in his hand as he ignores the stares around you. “You left without getting anything.”

“Huh? Oh I—” Briefly, the sorry interior of your fridge flashes through your mind. “I didn’t need anything.”

He eyes your face, the puffy bags beneath your own, the pinched set of your mouth. “Have you eaten yet?”

“What? I—no?”

"Here.” The plastic bag crinkles as he rummages through it, a slight flush dusting his cheeks when he offers you a protein bar you haven’t had since high school, the cartoon giraffe printed on the wrapper unchanged. “It’s not much, but—”

“No, thank you.”

Hajime nods as you stare down at the protein bar, swinging the bag a little more as he turns on his heel. “I’ll let you get home.”

“Hajime?”

His footsteps grind to a halt and he peeks over his shoulder, the curve of his smile soft, kind, just visible above his scarf. “Yeah?”

The protein bar is squashed between your hands as you take a step forward, closing the distance. “Will you eat with me? I mean, it doesn’t have to be this, but—Not that I’m not grateful for it? But will you?” You take a deep breath. “I could just…use a friend right now.”

The thought of going home, of sitting at the table, head in your hands, makes you feel sick right now. You’ll take what little sunlight there is left in the day, will take anything that will push your thoughts aside.

“Sure.” He smiles, pulls another protein bar half out the bag, the little giraffe peeking beneath his fingers at you. “Don’t worry; we don’t need to share.”

You smile faintly, but it’s far more genuine than whatever plastic grin you’d given him earlier.

He offers you his elbow, flushes a little at the shy squeeze you give it with your hand. “Let’s go.”

April is still cool, the promise of summer lingering around the corner. The bright sun that streams in is a welcome warmth, the cracked window ushering in the spring breeze. You contemplate the budding trees outside, watching them dance and wave cheerily in the wind. 

“I turned down another date.”

If it was anybody else, Hajime would snort and ask if they were bragging. With you, he just takes another sip of his tea, folding his fingers around the curve of the mug when he sets it back down. “Why.”

“I’m just not…” You sigh, folding in on yourself. “I can’t.”

He’s seen that forlorn expression on your face too often lately; seen it for the better part of the past year. As if sensing what he’s about to say, you add, “I’m not still hung up on him.”

It sounds like a lie.

Maybe, you think to yourself, it is a lie. A pathetic, flimsy lie to try and pretend that you’ve grown up when in reality you’re still stuck in limbo, forever rooted to aisle thirteen, to Yahaba’s apartment, to Sendai airport. But it’s easier to lie, to pretend and hope that maybe one day it’ll become the truth, a diamond formed from nothing but pressure and time and layers and layers of bullshit—

“You’re a liar.”

Hajime’s looking at you like he sees right through you, and maybe he does. It’s hard not to turn away from the sight of happy couples, hard not to turn back and stare wistfully as they whisper to each other, or touch each other’s hands. It’s the little things you miss most, you think; someone bringing you coffee, dropping a kiss to your forehead. Little messages throughout the day, _I miss you, I’m thinking of you, I can’t wait to see you_. The feeling of stepping through the door, hearing someone reply to your _I’m home_ with a _welcome back_.

But every want, every soft desire you try to draw closer to yourself is littered with thorns that rend your fragile skin, nothing but the possibilities of what could have been, what _should_ have been pulling you apart from the inside out. 

“I’m not lying—”

“Well, the only other option is that you’re stupid, and you’re definitely not that.”

You wince a little at his words, watching the steam rise from your untouched tea.

He’s right, though.

You’re not stupid.

You’ve seen the way he looks at you. Felt his lingering gaze, watched the way part of him softens whenever he’s around you, underneath that gruff façade he still adopts sometimes. You see it now, unable to look at him for long, the intensity in the way he takes you in, kind and admiring even though you feel as though you have nothing to offer him. Nothing worth having, anyway.

“Why do you still think he’s the only one who can make you happy?” He snaps you out of your thoughts, grabs the fletching of the arrow still buried in your heart and pulls.

“Hajime—”

“You deserve to be happy too, don’t you?”

 _Too_. You grip your mug a little tighter. **_Too_**.

The implication isn’t lost on you, that Tooru’s already—

You choke back the lump in your throat, and Hajime lifts a hand, traversing the width of the dining table to rest on yours.

“Why can’t it be someone else?”

 _Why can’t it be me,_ is what he wants to say.

So, he does.

“Why can’t it be me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ending credits:** [daddy issues - the neighbourhood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_lMlsPQJs6U)
> 
> tumblr [@chicoree](https://chicoree.tumblr.com)


	4. you let go and i'll let go too

**_But there must come a time where you recognize that to grieve someone hurts a lot less than forcing them to be a part of you._ **

**_And I know I should not beg for love, but just once I wanted someone to be afraid of losing me._ **

Halfway across the world, a month before a stricken silence fills your tiny kitchen, a month before you and Hajime stare at each other across a dining room table that’s far too big and far too small all at once, Tooru pours himself a glass of water.

One of the hardest things to adjust to in Argentina is the constant, year-round heat; even now in March it’s far too hot for his liking. The constant hum of the AC has become familiar now, the scent of sunscreen on his skin second-nature, but it’s strange for Tooru to open his closet and not see his winter coat, to have to pull out his scarves and hats from cardboard boxes for his winter trips back to Japan. He misses it a little, the snow; he’d declined his chance to fly to Miyagi for Christmas, celebrating the holiday with his friends and family through a screen, insisting they all send photos of the snow for him to live vicariously through.

 _The schedule will be too tight_ , he’d said. _I’ll barely have any time there._

It was time better spent in a quiet gym on an empty court, with nothing but the squeak of his shoes and the thump of the ball to keep him company

Does he miss Miyagi? Sometimes. Sometimes it all becomes too much, too overwhelming when he's standing in the middle of a sunny street, on his balcony at dusk, in the shower after practice. He thought the homesickness would leave after his first year here, would dull with the sight of his signature along the bottom of his contract. First in romaji, then in kanji, to quell the aching that lingered beneath the pride that shimmered bright and loud in his chest.

His phones rings, floats to him on a warm breeze through his balcony doors, pulls a smile on his face, tugs an eyebrow higher. “Iwa- _chan_? Well, well, this is a nice surprise. Isn’t it late over there? If you keep sleeping this late you’re going to get wrinkles—”

“Shut up, Oikawa.” There’s the sound of rustling sheets on the other end of the line. A deep sigh. “How’ve you been?”

“Hmmmm? Should I be flattered you thought about talking to me so late at night? This is why you’ll never get a girlfriend you know.”

“…Oikawa. Don’t make me regret this.”

“Alright, alright. No need to be so touchy all the time,” Oikawa says with a flippant grin. He dutifully chatters on about his day, about practice, about his serves, about the three dogs he saw on his run yesterday, about how only two of them let him pet them. About the pain he feels limiting his _alfajore_ consumption, about how he’s still drinking too much coffee for it to be healthy. He rattles around his apartment while he talks, putting away dried dishes, straightening a few books, picking at stray threads in his rug when he sits on the floor. “Iwa- _chan_? Are you still there?”

Hajime grunts, and Tooru frowns. He knows he’s been talking for the better part of an hour by now, knows that it’s edging towards 2am in Tokyo. “Is everything alright?”

“Why wouldn’t it be, Stupidkawa—”

“Iwa- _chan_.” There’s no room for argument in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” There’s more rustling on the other end, the sound of padding feet, the clatter of a door opening and closing. Tooru waits, patient as can be as he winds a thread around his finger.

“Well, how was your day? Or if you’re happy just hearing the sound of my voice, I’d be glad to keep going—”

Hajime groans loudly, laughing a little as Tooru squawks. It seems to do the trick, eases the tension on Hajime’s end for a moment as he recounts his week, talking about work, about friends, about—

He pauses and Tooru rips the thread from the rug, twirling it between his finger tips. “You saw her, hm? You don’t have to hide it, you know; even though things are over it doesn’t mean I don't care about how she is.”

“How much?”

“Huh?”

“How…how much do you care about her? Do you still…”

“You’re so nosy. Why’re you so interested, hm? Do you have a crush on her or something?”

There’s nothing but the crackle of Hajime breathing on the other end of the line. The thread slips from Tooru’s fingers, floats sadly to the floor to rest beside his heart.

“Oh.” His voice is too thick, too quiet. Too telling. He can hear the excuses bubbling up in Hajime’s throat and he tightens the edges of his smile even though there’s nobody there to see. “Oh! Well, this is a surprise. Who knew a brute like you would actually have feelings for someone else?”

“I’m not going to do anything about it.”

“Don’t stop on my account.”

“What?”

It slipped out before he really knew what he was saying, a glossy veneer to hide the cracks spreading along his body, spiderwebbing from between his shoulders.

Tooru thinks of you standing in Sendai airport, lit with sunshine. Of you glowing under the streetlight, snow in your hair. Of you standing in your doorway, in nothing but your underwear. Stripped bare by his own two hands.

Of his voice, quiet under the hum of some silly television show he can hardly bother to remember. _With all my heart._

“I want you to be happy,” Tooru’s says, light and airy, nothing but magnanimous, nothing belying the arrow that slips between his ribs to pierce his lungs. “That’s all that matters.”

“You—”

“I mean it. Don’t try and argue with me, Iwa- _chan_. We both know I’ll win.”

“…thanks,” Hajime says, hesitant, but happy. “Thanks...Tooru,” he tacks on, splintering the fragile, empty shell that used to house Tooru’s heart, shards of it shattering on the floor of an empty Argentinean apartment flooded by sunshine.

“Don’t say I never did anything for you.” This, at the very least, is meant for Hajime, bitter sincerity and all. “When are you going to tell her?”

“I don’t know.” There’s the sound of water pouring, of Hajime taking a drink. Tooru’s mouth is cotton dry. “Soon?”

“Soon,” Tooru repeats. “If things work out, you’ll be serious by the time I get back to Japan.”

The tap of Hajime’s glass on the counter, the roil of Tooru’s stomach.

“Don’t jinx it, Shittykawa. It might not work out.”

“No.” He doesn’t dare to breathe. “It might not.”

Hajime yawns, exhaustion sweeping him up easily now that his mind is at ease. “I should go to bed. Thanks for everything though, ‘Kawa.” His voice is little more than a sleepy slur. “…Oikawa?”

“Hm? Oh. Oh! Yes, good night.”

“…you—” A sharp breath, sucked in through Iwa- _chan_ ’s teeth, a telltale sign he’s about to pry the truth from Tooru’s shaking hands.

“Unless you want me to stay on the line and sing you to sleep? I’ve been told with my good looks I should think about becoming an idol—hello?”

Three beeps and Tooru’s left alone again, with nothing but the sound of the AC to keep him company. Now more than ever, the feeling of homesickness wells up, rolling waves of nausea as the slow realization that ‘home’ won’t really be the same anymore if things go well for Iwa and—

It’s selfish of him, and he knows this. He knows he’s had more chances than he can count, knows that he made a choice to set his phone aside every time he hovered his thumb over your name. Knows he chose to trade a white and turquoise jersey in favour of one in azure and sunflower yellow. Chose this apartment, with the smell of sunscreen lingering on his skin and his unravelling rug over Christmas in the sleepy streets of Miyagi, snow glimmering like brilliant crystals, frost on the windows, gloves and hat tugged on tight. The moment melts, slips through his fingers. Fantasy is pretty, soothing, but there’s no depth to it. No sustenance. He can hide away inside himself if he wants, thinking every little missed opportunity over, but it won’t change a thing.

And would he? If he could?

No…he knows he wouldn’t. Knows he made his bed – smoothed out the wrinkles, tucked the sheets underneath, flapped and laid out the duvet. All he has to do is lie in it.

Or he can—

He has to pinch himself, shake his head.

He knows he’ll never do that to Iwa; won’t swoop in and sweep you back off your feet. Won’t do it to you. This is the life he chose all those years ago, a decision made with a single phone call 13 000 kilometres away, more silence and sobbing than actual words.

He remembers hanging up, remembers feeling the humidity break as it rained, a sun shower that glittered and washed the streets with gold. He’d stood tucked away in the corner of his balcony, inhaling as deeply as he could, slow, even breaths that made every part of him hum with nervous energy; the promise of something new enticing him away from his phone resting on his coffee table. It had felt like a breath of fresh air, a promise that he was doing what was good, what was right. He remembers now, burying his head in his hands, how he’d watched the clouds shyly pull apart.

Watched – and waited – for a rainbow that never came.

Tooru’s suit is too stiff, just ever so slightly too tight. It’s not his fault he’s somehow gained even more muscle since his final fitting he insists, huffing at the unimpressed looks Takahiro and Issei give him. The shirt collar pinches just ever so slightly at his neck, the cuffs too tight at his wrists. Eyeing himself in the mirror he smooths down the dark green tie that lies against his front, buttons and unbuttons his jacket over and over and over again until Issei tells him to _quit it and leave it alone_.

“You’re all heathens,” he says, sniffing haughtily. “It’s normal for me to be nervous—”

“You played in the Olympics no problem,” Takahiro says, flipping his tie up over his face, then back down. “Wedding day jitters shouldn’t bug you.”

The tie goes up and back down again and Oikawa huffs, tugging at his collar again for good measure. “I’m going to get some air.”

The tie flies up. “Don’t take too long; we have to go soon.”

The tie flips down, and the door shuts.

Tooru doesn’t really remember the full layout of the inn, the memory of the blurred rehearsal dinner only made worse with the slight hangover still lingering in the back of his head. Mostly, he remembers seeing you smile, hearing you laugh, the feeling of his arm around your shoulders, pulling you tight to his side as you protested. The glimmer of your engagement ring, the perfectly cut diamond he’d insisted on sitting pretty on your finger.

He wanders up and down the halls, peeking past closed doors, humming under his breath, pretending he doesn’t know exactly where his feet are leading him. There’s no use hiding it though, no use lying to himself when he ends up exactly where he intended to be, rapping lightly on the door.

It cracks open a sliver, your maid of honour’s eyebrows jumping as her eyes widen. “You’re not supposed to be here before—”

“Shouldn’t I be allowed to bend the rules a little?” He gives her his most winning smile.

“Who is it?” you call from somewhere within the room, and Tooru’s smile turns genuine.

“It’s…uh…” She looks nervously over her shoulder, and Tooru has to fight the urge to pout and roll his eyes.

“It’s me,” he calls cheerily, sticking a hand through the door to wiggle his fingers merrily at you.

“Tooru? Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

“I just wanted to talk to you. That’s okay, right?”

There’s a pause and he holds his breath, inches a little closer, wiggles his toe in the door.

“I mean,” he can picture you worrying your lip between your teeth, “I guess so.”

“Well, you heard her.” When your maid of honour doesn’t move, he shields his eyes with one hand, presses the other to his heart. “I’ll be good.”

He sees the door swing open, hears the rustle of the bridesmaid’s dress, the gentle turning of the knob as she steps outside. He’s cheating a little bit, he’ll admit. He can see your hands nervously smoothing out the full white skirt of your dress, fighting the urge to crease the fine fabric between your fingers.

“Don’t worry, I promise I’m not looking!” he says light and cheerful, slyly peeking between his fingers and making you laugh as you rise to greet him. He presses his lips together as he takes you in, his hands rising to take yours before he hesitates, fingers curling away. It takes him a moment to finish drinking you in, glowing in the sun, your dress painted gold by the tinted light shining through the curtains. Finally, after what feels like a lifetime looking at you, his palms glide against yours, calluses brushing along your hands. “You look beautiful.”

You pull back a little, embarrassed, flustered, but pleased all the same, the curve of your smile making his heart flip as he presses closer. “I’d hope so.”

“Though I’d look much better in that dress—”

“ _Tooru_.” You laugh, infectious and warm, your nerves easing a little.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” You look so open, so honest, so sweet and lovely he forgets himself for a moment, loses his hold on the thread of his thought, scrambles a little to pick it up off the floor.

“Do you love him?”

Even your shock is lovely, the furrow of your brow where he’d always kiss you. The pull of your lips into a frown. “Yes.”

He takes a step forward.

“Really?”

You take a step back.

“Yes.”

Tooru slips his hands from yours, raising them to placate you, smiling easily and relaxed until you lower your guard a little more. “I just wanted to make sure. He is my best friend, you know.”

“I do know,” you say, your smile a little wry, making him laugh. Because of course you do.

Silences falls between the two of you, you smoothing out your dress, him quietly watching you. He calls your name, that careful mask he’s so used to wearing around you starting to slip ever so slightly.

He hopes you can see the apology in his eyes, one that’s been waiting too long in the wings. Not for telling you he loved you, telling you you’d make it work, only to let you go to pursue his dream; not for letting another man (a better man, he’d argue) hold you in his arms and tell you he loved you, and only you. No. None of that.

The words he cannot say, that you don’t want to hear, that are coming far too late, are hidden in the slight pinch of his brow, the minute, downward curve of his lips. In the dark brown of his eyes, the colour of espresso bitter and biting.

_I’m sorry I couldn’t be the man you wanted me to be._

A knock at the door breaks the spell, steals the words from his lungs.

“It’s almost time.”

He gives that same winning smile to your maid of honour, only slightly tarnished along the edges. “I should get going.” He looks at you, looks _through_ you, because part of him is afraid of what he’ll see. “You really do look beautiful.”

If you reply he doesn’t hear it, making his way back the way he came, carefully shutting all the doors he opened, trying to remember the song he’d been humming on the way there. _Silly little thoughts for a silly little man_ , he thinks.

Takahiro and Issei aren’t in the room, Hajime nowhere to be found, so he mumbles a quiet little, _Oops_ , hurrying along and hating the press of his collar biting into his throat.

“I’m here I’m here I’m here,” he says, slipping into place between Issei and Hajime, ignoring the eyeroll Takahiro gives him. He smooths out the crisp lines of Hajime’s suit, tugs at the lapels, at the tie, and at his own smile. “Are you nervous?”

“What do you think, Shittykawa?” Hajime rubs his hands together, cold from the nerves. “Did you see her?”

Hm. _Shittykawa_. The nickname has never been more apt than right now, Tooru thinks. “I did. She’s doing herself no favours marrying a complete caveman like you.”

“If I wasn’t getting married right now, I’d kick your ass. I’m not a caveman.”

“Mm, less caveman, more uncultured. Who insists on getting ties in _Godzilla green—_ ”

“Oi, listen here, Trashykawa—”

The music starts, the chatter hushes, and Hajime stands a little taller. Tooru does too.

The doors open and Hajime’s breath catches in his throat, tears pricking in his eyes that Tooru faintly knows he’ll have to make fun of later, for the sake of keeping up appearances. For the sake of ignoring his own, clinging to his lower lashes as he waits for his heart to settle, for his breathing to slow. He counts to three, squeezes his hands together.

Turns his head.

Watches you walk in, watches the light halo you from behind, watches the way you bite your lip, giddy and smiling and heartbreakingly beautiful as you look at a man that isn’t him. It’s easy to pretend – guiltily, bitterly – that he isn’t watching over Hajime’s shoulder, that it’s him you’re standing in front of. Easy to pretend, like he’s playing house in an empty apartment in San Juan.

"Hajime—”

It gets harder.

“I take you as my husband, with your faults and your strengths, as I offer myself to you with my faults and my strengths.”

He can see Hajime soothingly sweeping his thumb along the back of your hand, can see the way he—the way his _best friend_ tries not to cry, tries not to match you tear for tear as you laugh through your stuffed up nose and watery voice.

“I will help you when you need help, and turn to you when I need help.”

Tooru has to pull back a little, has to shift back onto his heels, has to stop spending so much time tiptoeing along the edge of a cliff he’s flirting with falling over. He focuses instead on the expanse of Hajime’s back, clad in a black suit jacket that fits him well, his figure stark against the brightly lit hall.

(Hajime standing in the evening light, a silhouette carved into the peaceful Miyagi streets.)

“I choose you as the person with whom I will spend my life."

The edges of Hajime’s ears are pink, Tooru thinks idly. And if he focuses on that – if he shifts to the side – he can’t see your face, and that’s both a blessing and a curse.

(The furrow of Hajime’s brow, the tip of his nose still pink as he blusters like he’s always done, pushing past disappointment in favour of defiance.)

 _(I’ll still give it my all to defeat you._ )

Tooru’s always been a masochist, he’s fairly certain. Chasing after a sport that didn’t love him as easily as it did his rivals. Choosing to struggle with his pride against a convocation of eagles, feathers dyed purple, the colour of kings; against a murder of crows, their wings flashing orange; a thunder of dragons, scales red as blood, breathing fire beneath the high ceiling of _Ariake_ arena.

 _Masochist_ , he repeats, rolling the word around in his mind as he shifts his weight to the side, shifts the back of Hajime’s head – that same boring hairstyle he’s had since high school; ever predictable, ever _reliable_ – to watch you brush at your tears with the back of your hand.

 _Masochist._ But the pain was worth it; after all, at the end of it all he’s come out triumphant, with a blaze of glory, his head held high, hair like spun gold blowing in the wind. He won with a fierce cry on his lips, face forever immortalized brave, defiant, beautiful.

“I love you, Haji. With all my heart.”

( _—a single, sharp-tipped arrow pushes through flesh and sinew, cracks ribs and pierces muscle to bury itself in his heart_ )

Everything slows, swims. There’s a pressure in his chest, and your words echo, reverberating in his ears, and his cheeks are growing wet. He must be drowning; must be drowning on dry land.

There’s the brush of Issei’s shoulder against his back, his voice a whisper in Tooru’s ear. “I knew you were gonna cry. You owe me 1500¥.”

_Oh, glory, glory to the chosen son, the blood of victors in his veins._

_Glory to Tooru who rises wounded, and alone._

_He who hides his anguish in shame, his sadness eclipsed by—_

Tooru smiles, leans back on his feet, hides your face from view. “Yeah.” He keeps his voice light. Easy. “Guess I lost after all.”

_—wanting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ending credits:** [ex-factor - ms. lauryn hill](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cE-bnWqLqxE)
> 
> tumblr [@chicoree](https://chicoree.tumblr.com)
> 
> I hope you liked it! Please let me know what you think.
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day 🌺💕


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